The March King
by Victoria Quynn
Summary: The usual fallbacks - poker and shootin' - are still what the boys depend upon to survive. Another from the vault.


The March King

Hannibal Heyes sat at a table in his room at the boardinghouse, pen in hand and open journal in front of him. He put the nib to the page but nothing flowed. Frowning, he put the pen down on the desk.

A familiar knock on the door interrupted him. The dark-haired ex-outlaw rose and grabbed his pistol from the holster dangling from the bedpost. He took up sentinel at the threshold, asking in a low voice, "Yeah?"

A soft, "It's me," gained his partner entrance to the room.

Heyes uncocked the sidearm, re-holstered it, and settled back at the desk. "How'd it go?"

Jed "Kid" Curry proceeded to take off his sheepskin coat. "'Kay."

"How much was it?"

"Two bits apiece, in advance, per night."

Heyes sighed. "So far, so good. We don't know the sheriff, and after spending two bits each for us and the horses, that's a dollar. We're only gonna be able to stay one night."

Curry removed his holster. "Somehow it don't seem too good a deal – the horses cost the same as we do."

"Well, it IS a good deal, and you know it. Where else we gonna get a bed, bath, and three squares for two bits? The hotel's too expensive."

"I know, Heyes. So much for enjoyin' ourselves a little bit. I mean, this is Denver. If only Clem was home."

"She's not, so no sense dwelling on it."

Kid sat on the bed. "Okay, so we cleaned off the trail dust, we'll have a good night's sleep in a soft bed and three decent meals, and the horses're taken care of. Not bad. But how do we enjoy ourselves with only seventy-three cents left between us? We won't even be here long enough to be able to get our laundry done." He got up, strode to the desk, and looked down at Heyes' journal, beholding a blank page. "So you didn't come up with a plan, either. Dang, Heyes!"

"Calm down, Kid. We'll think of something. Even if we go for a walk, there's plenty to see. Like you said, it IS Denver."

"Sheesh, just throw it up in my face, won't ya!"

Heyes chuckled. "Sure. Want me to do it again? That'll keep ME entertained!"

Blue eyes glared.

"Look on the bright side. We were lucky enough to get here just before lunch, and it was pretty good and there was plenty. Dinner's bound to be the same and breakfast tomorrow. You can have all you want – seconds and thirds even, and it won't cost us an extra penny."

Curry looked out the window. Seeing only a dark alley, he tossed the curtain aside in disgust. "So we won't go hungry while we're here. What're we gonna do with the rest of our fortune? Let's not spend it all in one place."

"Well, we need supplies…"

"I need a box of bullets. Two would be better."

Heyes eyed both gun belts. Some of the bullet holders were empty. "How many rounds do we have between us?"

Kid took a minute to count to himself, then checked the chamber of each pistol. "Unless you're holding out on me, we have thirty even – sixteen for you, fourteen for me."

Heyes thought out loud. "And a small box costs another two bits."

"Probably more here because it's the big city."

Heyes wrote. "Okay, figure thirty-five cents. That's thirty-eight cents left. We'll get a box and split it between us."

"Okay."

"Unless…"

"What?"

"Unless I play a couple of hands of penny ante poker. I should be able to at least double or triple what we have and entertain myself at the same time." Heyes grinned. "That's a right good plan, don't ya think?"

Blue eyes rolled. "Maybe for you, Heyes. What about coffee, flour, beans…?"

"Yeah, I know – and don't forget the hardtack, oats, and anything else." Heyes sighed. "We just can't afford everything right now, not without a job or poker winnings."

"Not much chance of a job, either. The liveryman said with the recession there's too many men and not enough work."

Heyes' brow furrowed. "Great. And we thought it might be different here, big town and all. So we're back to square one."

"Looks that way." Curry paced. "What about seein' if Lom knows of somethin'?"

"Fine idea, if we had the money to send a wire."

"Dang! Heyes, that bank is lookin' awfully good right now. If only…"

"I know what you mean. 'If only' is right."

A bell rang.

Kid perked up. "Dinner."

Heyes stood and reached for the key. "Here's a plan to start with. Let's eat our fill, go buy that box of bullets, price out a few more supplies, and see what else we can figure out."

The partners strolled Larimer Street. All of the bullet holders in their gunbelts were now filled.

"Fate's shining on us, Kid. I'm feeling lucky."

"Why? We only have two bits left."

Heyes smiled. "Look on the bright side. We were able to get a box of bullets, coffee, beans, and flour for less than four bits. That's a pretty good deal. You said so yourself."

"Yeah, it is. But only because the bags were so small. That's barely enough coffee or beans for a few days on the trail!"

"Then you'll just have to find enough game to keep our bellies full and conserve bullets."

"Heyes, don't go tellin' me how to shoot."

"I'm not." Brown eyes twinkled. "Now for my end of it. Let's find a low stakes game."

Blue eyes rolled yet again. "You mean a poor man's game? You ain't gonna find it in this part of town."

Men and women in Eastern finery seemed to outnumber those in working garb, while the saloons and gambling halls where they walked looked a tad too grand.

Heyes nodded south. "Let's try over that way."

The dark-haired partner spied an open chair at a table. "Is there a buy-in?"

The man shuffling cards looked up briefly. "Nope. Penny to open and nickel limit. Call on the second raise."

Heyes grinned and took a seat. "Sounds good. Deal me in."

Kid Curry watched as his partner quickly won his first five hands to build up a little stake, calling it beginner's luck, then eased off so as not to arouse suspicion. After a couple of hours, Heyes took a break, signalling Kid to join him at the bar.

"Two beers."

"Joshua, we can't afford that."

"I say we can." Heyes dropped a dime on the bar. "Besides, I'll need a break every now and then." He counted out some coins and handed them to Kid. "Here's a dollar. Hold it so we can pay another night for us and the livery in advance. These guys are pretty good poker players. It's gonna take a while to get any kind of stake. There's gotta be a better way."

"What about a higher stakes game?"

The dark-haired man took a swig. "I asked. Most low stakes games have a buy-in around these parts, so I'll have to play here. It'll keep me occupied most of the time, but I should be able to get us a couple dollars a day, maybe."

"Not gonna get rich that way."

Heyes grabbed his mug. "No, but it'll keep us at the boardinghouse day to day and enough for more supplies. I gotta get back." He stopped in mid-step. "You know, these guys are good players and kinda friendly, and this place is pretty quiet. I'll be okay if you want to see what else is around."

Kid raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"Me and my back are sure. Check in every hour or so if you want."

Blue eyes scanned the saloon. "Okay. I'll be back in a while."

"Okay."

"Joshua."

Heyes looked behind him. "Huh?"

"Good luck."

The pickings being slim in the area where Heyes was playing, Curry walked back to Larimer Street. Music caught his ear. Approaching the sound, he saw a crowd gathered around a makeshift band stand in the middle of the square, illuminated by gas lamps in the fading daylight. From his vantage point, he could see men in military uniform playing high-spirited, marching music. Several people around him nodded their heads in time to the tunes, and Kid couldn't help but tap a foot.

The band played two more songs after he arrived. The conductor, whom Curry could barely see, spoke, but the applause drowned him out. Before the blond ex-outlaw left, he perused a flyer someone had handed him.

Hannibal Hayes was aghast. "What are you thinking? You can't do this. You know that!"

"I'm not gonna ask, 'mother, may I?' Heyes, just like you know when to go ahead and win and back off in poker, so do I with shootin'. It'll be easy. And there's cash prizes for the three top finishers, so I don't even have to try to win to get somethin'."

His face bright red, Heyes threw up an arm. "It'll just draw attention to you…to us!"

"Keep your voice down, Heyes; we're inside. Now who might be drawin' attention to us?" Kid raised an eyebrow.

Heyes shook his head. "If Thaddeus Jones wins…"

"Who's Thaddeus Jones? I'll be somebody else."

The next morning after breakfast, Kid Curry stood in the middle of their room at the boardinghouse, twirling his Colt. Practicing his fast draw, he stopped in mid-step at the familiar knock on the door. He approached the threshold and after the usual precautions, let his partner in.

Hannibal Heyes entered the room as Kid once again drew. The dark-haired man sighed. "I don't know how I let you talk me into this. We're gonna live to regret it."

Curry smiled. "Have some faith in me, will ya? It's gonna be okay. It's on the edge of town, I'll be under a different name, and I'll try not to win. And even if I did…"

"Kid…"

"Don't worry, Heyes. You don't have to come, you know."

"I don't? Somebody's gotta watch your back, even if it takes me away from the easy money."

"Ha! Sittin' on your ass all day for a couple dollars is easy money?"

"It's more or less guaranteed, and we're flat broke otherwise."

"Yeah, I know, Heyes. This is my way to save ya some of that sittin'. Let's get the horses."

The partners rode to the designated area. Scanning the crowd carefully, they saw no one with whom they might have struck up a recent acquaintance or who otherwise seemed interested in them. Satisfied, Curry approached the registration table.

"I'd like to enter the contest."

A bearded man looked him over. "Name?"

"Thaddeus Hotchkiss."

"Experience?"

"Huh?"

"What's your shooting experience?"

Kid tried to hide a knowing smile. "Uh, I usually hit what I aim at."

"Very good. Weapon?"

"Yup, right here." The blond man indicated his Colt.

"Young man, where's your shotgun?"

"Uh, shotgun?"

"Well, this is a trapshooting competition. I've never known anyone to compete with anything but a shotgun."

"Oh, I…" Kid sighed.

"We have them for rent for the competition."

"You do? Uh, how much?"

"A dollar."

Curry gulped. "A, a dollar?"

"That's right."

"Umm, can you hold my place? I'll be right back."

The partners stood apart from the crowd.

"Come on, Heyes. It's just a dollar."

"That's highway robbery! Since when is it 'just a dollar' when that'll keep us in relative luxury another day?"

Curry sighed. "Forget it. We can't afford it."

"That's right."

The blond man turned to walk back to his horse.

"Wait, Kid. This isn't such a sure thing anymore, is it?"

Curry regarded his partner. "No. Not with shotguns."

"But you should do okay."

"I should…"

"Ya know, I still can't say I'm thrilled with this, but…" Heyes withdrew a bill from his pocket. "My backside can use a rest."

Several hours later, the five competitors in the lead entered the final round, Thaddeus Hotchkiss amongst them. Quiet beforehand, the spectators cheered after each shot as most of the platter-sized clay pigeons disintegrated to pieces. Even Heyes got into the spirit.

Each man shot from five different stations, the targets flying from the central trap in all directions. At the conclusion of the last round, the judge announced a tie between Mr. Hotchkiss and a man in a military uniform. After a break, there would be a shoot-off for first place.

Hannibal Heyes smiled. "That was some pretty good shooting."

"It's not over yet."

Heyes sobered. "Kid, you're guaranteed the second place prize. Let that be good enough."

"I can't. That guy's a musician!"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Curry eyed his competitor from a distance. "Look at that fancy uniform. He's a lucky shot."

"I've been watching the whole thing, and it looks to me like he knows what he's doing. He's relaxed out there."

"I'm not?"

Heyes raised an eyebrow. "To tell the truth, Kid, you looked a little…nervous at first. But just a little." He regarded his partner. "But, that don't matter. I'd appreciate it if you just settled for second place. Miss enough targets to let him win."

Blue eyes pleaded. "Heyes, do you know what you're askin'?"

"Yeah. I do." The dark-haired man nodded. "And you know I do, and it's not easy. But…"

The partners walked back to their horses.

Heyes noted, "Ten dollars. Not bad for a few hours of enjoying yourself."

Curry was silent.

Heyes draped an arm around the blond man's shoulders. "Thanks, Kid. I appreciate what you did. We still have enough for another night or two, and with this ten, I can buy into a bigger game and make enough so we won't have to worry about money or finding work for a while."

Kid sighed. "I could've won that, Heyes."

"You sure? With that musician turning out to be an experienced trap shooter? He didn't miss."

"And I missed on purpose."

Heyes smiled. "Then I guess we'll never know."

Curry shook his head in disbelief. "And to think that guy's job is playin' marches."

Heyes clapped him on the shoulder. "And your job is stayin' out of trouble." 

_**Note**_ **:** John Philip Sousa, the American "March King," conducted the Marine Band from 1880-92. The band went on its first nationwide tour in 1891, but for purposes of this story, I've pulled that date back a decade.

Sousa was an avid trap shooter and headed and helped found various trap shooting and related organizations. He was inducted into the Trap Shooting Hall of Fame in 1985.


End file.
